


Reunification

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-01-24
Updated: 2004-01-24
Packaged: 2018-12-27 11:03:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12079779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Justin leaves.





	Reunification

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

Their eyes meet across a crowded Italian restaurant.

Brian isn’t supposed to be there, but then neither is Justin. Its fate’s way of giving them both the finger, and Brian suddenly remembers why he hates California. The tricks have too many piercings, the air is for shit, and now this.

A ghost of fucks past.

Three years isn’t long enough to fill the void.

Or forget.

So, Brian flattens Justin up against the cold, slick, metal of the bathroom stall and Justin gives in to the relentless pounding of a grudge fuck, while Brian pants gruffly into Justin's ear

Neither speak, but their hands murmur the sweet ache of reunification: entangle, and entwine, and grasp, and push and pull. 

Brian clasps his fingers around Justin's wrists, searching for the thump-thump. Proof that Justin is here, alive, flesh, and not some fucked up dream. 

He comes in silent reverie.

Neither look up. 

Justin will remember the distinct splash the condom makes as Brian drops it into the toilet, the clink of Brian's belt buckle as he deftly refastens it, and the zip of Brian’s pants.

Brian will only remember thud of the door hitting the stall as Justin leaves.

Again.

Three weeks later Brian is able to pretend it never happened. Justin is a myth, now. A trick of the eye. A figment of light and shadow.

But sometimes on cold nights, when Brian lies in bed alone, smoking pot, blowing smoke rings at the ceiling, he thinks he feels a brush of blond hair that tickles like a feather. The remnants of a giggle, echoing like a lullaby in the cavern of the empty loft. 

Brian is Icarus falling, spiraling into a hazy memory, but he has better things to do then wade in a waxy pool of the past.

Fuck him for leaving

Justin is a seraphim’s batting eyelashes, the hollows of pinkened cheeks and the lushness of rosy lips. He is a golden illumination of knees ground deep into hallowed ground, hands pressed together in a silent prayer.

“Ask me to stay.”

Brian doesn’t ask. 

Brian tells.

“Stay or go.” 

Brian demands

“Get dressed. Babylon is calling”

Justin is compliant and pliable, giving in to Brian’s denial that everything will just work out, because it always has in the past.

Only Justin has his own voice now, in the back of his head that taunts him with ideas of leaving, getting away from the claustrophobia of Pittsburgh. Of the Diner. Of Babylon. Of Liberty Ave. Of his mother. Of Chris Hobbs.

Of Brian.

Brian is no longer solace. Somewhere he became the problem. A conglomerate of things he'd rather forget.

Of things he can't have.

Flowers, birthday gifts, I love you's.

Open fucking honesty.

And goodbyes.

So, Justin buys a bus ticket to California with last week's tips. 

Telling Brian is easier then he thought, but then Brian is in one those moods where nothing is good enough, because he has a headache.

Justin's proclamation hits the floor like goose down pillow. 

Brian shrugs it off, and dresses, and dances, and fucks like nothing has changed, while Justin packs a duffel back and tries to forget how hard it to let go of the sex.

Leaving is like silent screaming or swallowing blood. 

These days Brian takes walks down Liberty Avenue, hands digging deep into his leather jacket. Sometimes he smokes. Sometimes he just tries to remember to put one foot in front of the other. Sometimes he ends up in Babylon. Sometimes he dances in the middle of the floor, swaying to the cacophonous thumping of the bass.

And only sometimes, he remembers that night when it rained so hard that no one noticed the tears slowly slipping from the corners of his eyes, like beads of penance.

"Don't go," the words stifled in his throat as Justin climbed the steps of the Greyhound bus not daring to look back.


End file.
